


Rain Check

by Augend (orphan_account)



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode: s06e10 Faith Based Initiative, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28905840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Augend
Summary: They hadn’t talked about it.
Relationships: Josh Lyman/Sam Seaborn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Rain Check

The last week’s been bad, to say the least. First, there was Donna leaving, and then that argument he’d had with Josh, then that internet rumor about CJ, and then Annabeth’s idea to give him _de facto_ press secretary duties after CJ had become Chief of Staff. 

Sam has no clue why Annabeth thought he’d be remotely good at the press secretary job when it was clear that she knew her way around things much better than he did. He reasons that he should probably be telling her this while he's walking out of a press briefing full of incessant questions about the budget and that rumor about CJ. The latter makes his blood boil, (mostly on a terrifyingly personal level that he doesn’t want to think about) and it'd taken a few long moments to collect himself, to gather the words that he had to say. 

That, Sam muses, cutting through the comms bullpen with no Toby in sight, is why CJ is better at this than him. Why Annabeth is better at this than him. They can say things and make them sound polished, clear on sight. Sam agonizes over words, trying to make sure they work and fit together, always rearranging so he says exactly what he means to say. It makes him a good speechwriter and a good debater, but slow at the quick-fire rhythm of the press corps, and he’s pretty sure everyone else knows the same. They’re just holding up until CJ finally throws her hands up and takes Sam off the air. 

When he gets into his office, he pokes around for his glasses (not camera-friendly, apparently) and puts them on. Toby and Josh were doing their work to get the Wilkinson amendment off the budget, and the part of Sam that wonders (hopes) that they will crops up right around the time his desk phone starts ringing. 

“Sam?” It’s Annabeth. 

“Yeah?” He rubs his eyes; he hasn’t slept in what feels like forever. 

“We need a comment on the Sanctity of Marriage amendment to the budget; Toby told me to leave it alone -”

“We can’t,” Sam sighs. He’d gotten a few questions about it, and the urge to shut down all mention about it had crept up on him more than a few times. When he’d first heard about the amendment, his spine had turned to ice. “We’ll have to address it, otherwise the corps is going to think we’re dodging the question and possibly come up with their own conclusions. Which, objectively, would be bad.”

A pause. Then Annabeth again, sounding the tiniest bit smug. “See, I told you you’d get better at this.”

“I’m really not. Every time I pause on the podium, the press corps is probably thinking of burning holes in my forehead. Or setting my hair on fire.” 

“That’d be tragic for your hair, wouldn’t it? According to the grapevine, you apparently hoard styling gel, so good thing none of them have laser vision. “

He laughs. It’s sort of dry and not at all happy, but he’ll take what he can get. “Annabeth. The comment. I think we should start drafting it -”

“Luckily for us, CJ agrees. I’ve got this other thing, but I’ll be down there in an hour.” 

“Yeah, ok -” Josh is at his door. Josh is - is knocking on the door jamb and looking guilty, which Sam only knows because he knows what to look for. Or, well, _knew_.

The argument had been the day after Donna had left. Donna had told Sam she was leaving and also informed him that he’d have to tell Josh because Josh kept rescheduling on her. 

“Or maybe he’s under the impression that if he keeps getting me to jump over hurdles, we’ll never talk about it,” she’d said, arms crossed. It was true, and Sam knew it too. 

They’d hugged and promised to phone call or email every week and then Donna had left. Sam hadn’t been surprised at all; he also hadn’t been surprised when Josh had burst into his office and asked, “Where’s Donna?”

“She -” but before Sam could answer, Josh had filled in the rest of the sentence, eyes wild, hands flailing. “She’s not here - she’s moved on, according to Leo, but since you’re so good at words, I’d figured you could ascertain what that meant. Y’know?” He was twitchy, kinetic.

“I think _moved on_ has pretty clear implications,” Sam said, and it was supposed to be snarky, funny, even, but it came out flat. 

_“Sam,_ ” Josh said, nearly pleading but not quite, dragging his name along. 

“She’s working for the Russell campaign,” Sam told him, getting up and shuffling away whatever draft he’d been working on. He’d leaned forward, crossed his arms. “At least, that’s what she told me.” 

It was the second time, maybe ever, that Sam had seen Josh completely speechless. The first time, he hadn’t even seen it; he’d heard it on the other end of a phone line, across the country in California. Then Josh’s voice had dislodged from the fish-gape silence his face had molded into and he said, “She’s working for Russell? Like - the primary campaign? She didn’t tell me.”

Josh sounded lost enough for Sam to feel bad, but not quite enough for him to hold back what he said next. “She _tried._ Honestly, Josh, she should’ve left a long time ago; she’s too good at all of this to keep being tied down here.” 

A little bit of it why Sam said it was selfishness. Most of it was because it was true. 

When Josh spoke again, his tone was sharp, wounded, and it hurt to hear. It hurt because Sam loved him - had loved him in some kind of way for so many years, until Rosslyn, when love had tipped over side-ways into _in love_ territory. Or maybe it always had been. That’s what Donna had said, anyway. 

“ _Tied down here_. You mean with me, right.”

It wasn’t a question. Josh had made up his mind. And it still hurt to hear, but Sam said, pointed, “Yeah, I guess I did.”

And then they’d argued. It’d been bad, stinging and sharp in all the places they knew how to get at. Toby had said that it’d sounded pretty heated from his office, before suggesting that Sam and Josh try their luck at auditioning at _Days of Our Lives._

“Plenty of explosive arguments there,” he’d explained. 

Sam had been tired of placating and pretending the fracture between them didn’t exist. He knew where it had started; it’d been after the 47th, after the loss that had stung like salt in a wound, that feeling of being emptied out when you’d put all of yourself in and still lost. Josh had called him, and Sam had been so fucking numb when he’d picked up that Josh’s words hadn’t filtered in until “...Sam, you’re ok, you’re ok.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re ok,” Josh repeated. “If you’re not, I’m going to be there until you are again.” His voice, stubborn and fierce and so sure, had been the one thing that felt alive in all the aftermath. 

_I love you,_ Sam had thought, but it wasn’t until the burn of the silence filled the phone line that he’d realized he’d said it out loud into the receiver. 

Josh hadn’t said anything for thirty seconds, forty-five seconds, a minute, and then Sam hung up the phone with a sharp _clack_ , because he’d always been good at running when need be. 

Sam knew at some level that nothing would really ever come of he felt for Josh. Josh was straight, and Sam had been ninety-nine percent sure that he hadn't known Sam wasn’t up until the call, though Sam had also been sure that if (when) he told Josh he was bisexual, it would probably go over ok. Then there had been the fact that at the time, Josh had been dating Amy, which had sent Sam into an even deeper spiral than the one that had plagued him as soon as he’d hung up the phone.

So Sam had spiraled, and then he’d gone back to DC because even though he was good at running, he knew the difference between running and _running_ and he wasn’t sure he wanted to go through with the latter. 

They hadn’t talked about it. They’d side-stepped it for two and a half years until it hung around like a giant elephant in the room, unraveling the loops of their relationship. 

So Sam hangs up on Annabeth and gets up to meet Josh, who leans off the door jamb and moves further into the office. It’s easy to fall back into work, even with everything else. “Any luck with Wilkinson?” 

“Wilkinson's thinking the president’s going to sign with the amendment anyway.” Josh runs a hand through his hair until it sticks up. “I think Toby's going to try to talk to Russell or other members of the Conference Committee, see if he can get them to back taking the amendment off so we aren’t left out in the cold. Sam -”

“Damn it,” Sam says. Then, frustrated - “Josh, the president’s not going to have to sign, is he? He can’t, I mean - seriously, in good faith. It doesn’t line up with what we’ve done. It’s - the amendment’s ridiculous. He can’t - he _won’t._ ” He finishes with a kind of conviction that grounds him. 

“Sam, I - you know I don’t want him to sign with the amendment either. Nobody does. But, uh, that’s not why I’m here.”

“It’s not?”

Josh fiddles a little bit, rocks back on his heels. “You know how I’ve been talking to Congressman Santos?” 

“Unsolicited flights to Houston don’t come without an agenda,” Sam replies, and at Josh’s look, blank and a little confused, he stops. It hurts a little to see it on his face, because it reminds Sam of how far they’ve unwound, like two strangers on the ends of a bridge. Sam does what he does best, then; he pivots. “That’s why you went there last week, right?”

Sam knows Josh’s becoming restless, ever since he’d been shut out of peace talks at Camp David, ever since Leo had had a heart attack, maybe even before that, when the second term had started winding down. Sam’s not sure. He’d be surprised if people at the DCCC weren't asking for him, if Hoynes wasn’t trying to stage a comeback with Josh Lyman at the helm. Josh is brilliant at all of this, which is a no-brainer, even if it took him being stuck in Indiana for Sam to fully realize it.

So all of it - the meetings with Santos, the flights down to Texas - is a slow inevitability. Sam knows where it leads to, and doesn’t blink when the conversation progresses, until eventually, Josh says, hands shoved into his pockets:

“I convinced him to run for president, but he said he’d only do it if I was on his campaign. So, I am. And - look, I don’t need to get an earful, Toby already gave me the spiel.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Sam says, and even though he’s been expecting this, it still sounds hollow. 

“Oh,” Josh says, and he sounds surprised. He blinks back up at Sam, and despite everything, his mouth pulls into the start of a smile. “That’s - that’s good.” 

“It’s more like I’m saving my words since I’m pretty sure you’ve got your own reasons,” Sam says, careful, careful, because if it comes out too quickly, it’ll be sharp. “You’re looking forward and you don’t think Russell is it. Santos is your guy.”

“Yeah,” Josh says, and then he really smiles, small and warm. It’s not wide or mocking or triumphant, but it knocks the breath out of Sam anyway. “Yeah - I - yeah. You hit the nail on the head. Weird, I thought you’d, you know - “

“I couldn’t change your mind,” Sam says. “I mean, the odds are rough, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. And most of the party’s probably going to think you’re off your rocker. I mean, I guess if they haven’t already, no offense.” The last words turn teasing, light. 

He’s not sure how much of this all is Santos and Josh looking to the next election, or Josh itching for a change. He’s never been a constant, after all.

And all of it is a longshot and could be completely crazy, considering Russell’s running with Will campaigning for him. Will, who's the same guy who’d campaigned and won an election with nothing but a list of ideas and a skeleton crew for a dead candidate.

But Sam figures Josh can put up a fight; it’s not like he needs validation, because Sam’s pretty sure that Toby’s probably going to complain about Josh being insane the next time they meet, but Sam’s kind of biased on that front. Has been for a long time. 

Josh is looking at him. Sam’s not really sure what that’s supposed to translate to, but when Josh says, “Come with me,” he gets the wind knocked out of him again. 

Sam blinks, adjusts his glasses, lets a laugh settle on the corner of his mouth, anything to level this out. “What?”

Josh’s face has shifted; he’s completely serious. “Come with me. We’ll need damn good speechwriters, and you’re up there - you’re the best. You already know why we have to do this, so. Come with me. We need you. I -” He stops before he can say anything else, and Sam’s too floored to fill the rest of it. 

“You know Toby’s still better at me; I maintain that. Plus he’s technically my boss, so it’s a loyalty thing,” he quips, or tries, except it comes out all shaky and wrong. 

“Sam.”

The thing is - the thing is, that Sam thinks there’s something magnetic about Josh. A pull that goes along with a push. He can either get you out of your comfort zone or pull you into the craziest things, but he’s there with you. That’s why Sam had left that Gage Whitney meeting, why Lisa and he hadn’t made it work, why he stayed. 

In spite of all of this, what Sam actually says is, “I can’t.”

The worst part is that it doesn’t even shock him. It makes sense.

“I can’t,” he repeats, and this is the uncoupling. This is the fracture, working to heal itself, but breaking over and over again. This is his responsibility to this administration, to the president, to his colleagues and friends. This isn’t Josh. 

Sam hurries to explain. “If you trust your instincts, if you think this is real -" not _the real thing,_ because that would be New York and 1998 all over again - “- then do it. I think you should do it. But I have to finish this - there's things I still need to do here. Plus,” he lets his mouth quirk. “I think inciting Toby’s ire once is probably once enough for this week.” 

Josh hasn’t interrupted once. He hasn’t interjected or thrown his own thoughts into the mix. He looks - resigned. But not like he’s lost. Sam can’t tell.

“Yeah,” he says, finally, and it’s more a breath than a word, an exhale. Josh rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “Yeah. I - just wanted to tell you. I’ll be handing in my resignation to Bartlet after this. Secondhand from CJ or Toby wouldn’t be ideal.” 

“I guess this is where I'm supposed to wish you luck, except -”

“- it’s arbitrary and cliche, and you hate cliches, so you’ll churn out something vague and aspirational.” 

“I’ll spare you. It could be a parting gift? It saves me from planning a going-away party.”

“Right,” Josh says, near sheepish, and then juts a thumb out to the door. “I, uh, should probably go.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and this is the part where he does say something that’s definitely not vague and aspirational. This is the chasm, growing bigger and bigger until Sam’ll be here and Josh’ll be campaigning for the primaries in whatever state. Donna and he will probably cross paths. Probably Joey too, if she’s not busy.

But he doesn’t and Josh turns around, making his way to the door, which is closed. 

And then Josh opens the door, just a bit - but. But. Then he stops. Like a freeze-frame. Like he’s hanging on to the moment. Like he’s waiting for the tension to spill like water. Sam’s just about to ask him if there’s anything else when Josh shuts the door. 

“Josh -”

Josh walks - stalks, actually - over. It’s so sudden that Sam has no space for a question, and then Josh is so close and is whispering, “Fuck, I hope this isn’t stupid,” and before Sam can ask what the hell he means, Josh’s mouth is on his.

It’s desperate and quick and nearly stings. Sam has no idea where to put his hands, so he just settles them on Josh’s upper arms, while Josh’s hands cradle his face, too tender. His heart is beating, his mind is going a million miles an hour, and it’s only when Josh pulls away and rests his forehead, gentle on Sam’s, and says, “Bye, Sam,” that everything actually registers. 

But then Josh is walking away before Sam says, frantic, “Wait - wait - Josh - what does that -”

“I do too,” Josh says, and it reverberates in the air in between them like vibrations, like ripples in a pond. “I really do, Sam, I love - " he bites his lip, shakes his head and then he’s out the door before Sam can get a word in. 

_Come with me._

Sam should go after him. Sam should go after him and tell him everything, let Josh tell him everything. Sam should go after him and kiss him back, kiss him like he's coming home, because that’s what Sam _does,_ he follows Josh, and Josh gets him.

Until now. 

Sam laughs. Or not. The sound that comes out of his mouth doesn’t even sound real. He flops down in his chair with an unremarkable thud that underscores everything that just happened, and he lifts his hand to his lips like the kiss had left a mark, a touchstone to remind him that it'd occurred. He'll call Josh this time, he knows that for sure. Sam won't hang up, and he hopes Josh won't either. Hopes because he can.

He’s still sitting there when Annabeth comes in with her padfolio and notes and a draft to write, forty-five minutes later.


End file.
